You've Got Mail
by SparrowSpera
Summary: Iran, 1979 - trapped at his embassy during a violent revolution, America makes his heroically catastrophic escape in a mail bag, with the help of three unsuspecting cohorts. Completely random in every way.
1. Escape

**I am blaming my government and politics class on this entirely. We're studying Iran right now, and legend has it that during the Islamic Revolution, some American hostages were smuggled out of the American Embassy in Canada Post bags. The image of Matthew dragging Alfred around in a post bag would not leave my mind. Here it is in all its mutated glory.**

**This so counts as studying for my exam tomorrow.  
**

~X~

America did not like teenagers. They were eternal problems. Besides the fact that they consumed too much, stayed out too late, broke stuff, and seemed to regenerate indefinitely, there was also the fact that nobody could get passionate like teenagers could. Who had been the ones in the self-dyed shirts raging against his most disastrous wars a mere four years ago? _Teenagers._

And who were the ones clawing at the gates of his embassy like rabid weasels? Teenagers. _Iranian_ teenagers.

"Why the hell am I even _HERE?_" he asked despairingly. It was hot. It was dangerous. It was dusty. The country was in the grip of raging...angry people. And his host nation who was _supposed_ to be taking care of him was off in some corner of some palace having an extended identity crisis.

Oh right. That's why he was sitting in this uncomfortable chair, in this desert-dry and underdecorated office. There was _oil_.

America backed away from the window and sat down in a chair, head in his hands. He'd seen some doctors, but it really had become an addiction. Why hadn't he listened to England all those years ago…? What was it he had said….?

"_Alfred!" he'd said hysterically, with his arm wrapped slightly drunkenly around a new colony and his uniform in such tatters it might as well have been confetti, "You know what is a really, really REALLY funny thing to go to war over? Drugs!"_

_ "…Is that what you did?" America had asked flatly, staring blank-eyed at the poppy fields behind him and England's spasmodically giggling face._

_ "Yes!" England chirruped brightly. "And I have a new colony. Isn't he cuuuuuuuuuuuuute?"_

_ Sickened slightly by England's paternal fussing, America had backed away and then set off at a sprint, back over the poppy fields._

_ "WELL YEAH, RUN AWAY!" England had roared after him "I DON'T NEED YOU ANYMORE, I HAVE OPIUM, HONG KONG, AND TEA AND THAT IS ALL I WILL EVER NEED!"_

_ Wild laughter echoed over the fields as America retreated for the sake of his sanity, before England could break down and start sobbing and raging again over 1776 and all those boxes of tea at the bottom of the ocean._

Huh. Well maybe that was a little irrelevant, but England had warned him – when he was a little more sober – that needing something another country had would always get you into trouble.

"Um," said a quiet voice from beneath him, "Are you going to get off of me?"

America yelped and leaped out of what he had presumed was the chair, which let out a breath and stood up. He blinked and let his eyes readjust. In front of him was a mussed and grumpy nation, readjusting his glasses and summoning a look of haughty French disdain. America cringed as his younger brother folded his arms and looked at him, rather petulantly, wordlessly demanding explanation.

"Sorry, Mattie."

There was a blunt, tense pause, and then Canada faltered. "It's alright, it was my fault!" the other country said brightly, all traces of resentment gone.

_I am such a goddamned doormat._ Canada thought, and continued to internally complain in angry French about his uselessness and his willingness to follow Alfred into stupidly dangerous situations. He had been visiting the American embassy out of concern for his brother. Not too much of a bother, as his own embassy was mere blocks away, but still enough to make him resent being ignored. And then sat on.

"So…um…" America said awkwardly, "Bad time for a Middle Eastern vacation?"

Canada nodded in agreement. "_Legendary_ bad time."

The voices of protesters in some very scathing-sounding languages rose up and beat against the window. Canada and America crossed to it automatically, and looked down at the crowd of teenagers – goddamned _young adults_ – banging at the gates. Guards tried to talk them out of it, but they were promptly trampled by the protestors. The gates gave, and a swarm of people streamed into the embassy, coming to a stop again at the door to the building – directly under Canada and America.

"So this sucks," America said lightly, crossing his arms.

Canada sighed, irritated. "Yes. Yes it does." When America didn't pick up on his sarcasm right away, he snapped, worry manifesting as anger. "Damn it, Alfred!" Canada barked, and the other country paid attention, "Stop being so cavalier! They'll break through the door any minute and we've got to get out of here before they do."

"I don't get it, though!" America replied shrilly. "Why are they so mad at me? What did _I _do?"

Canada looked at him coldly. "_Mon dieu_, but you can be stupid sometimes. Do you remember saying that Iran was 'not in a pre-revolutionary state'?"

"Yeah," America said.

"Evidently your research was a bit off."

America frowned and looked out the window again. Impassioned, heated, angry faces looked up at him, crying out for revolution.

"Oh."

"Yeah. I'm guessing they're really mad because they think you're on the Shah's side."

America started to flail a bit, like he always did when he was distressed. "But I'm not on anyone's side!"

"That's why the Shah is mad too." Canada explained, growing more and more impatient. "Not like he's in any position to help you anyways. Which is why _I_ have to get you out of here."

They had come full circle. America lowered his arms and sank into the chair. Canada was used to having to explain things to him twice before he agreed to them. Often he'd go off on some irrelevant tangent and he'd have to lead him back on track.

"But won't they get mad at you, too?"

Canada snorted. "That would mean they'd have to remember that I exist. That's tough enough for you sometimes."

America ignored the jibe and started to flail again. "Well do you have a _plan?"_ he asked. "Right now I'm thinking decoy tactics – you'll be the decoy, of course – and then I'll run in, and-"

He was silenced by a quick and violent slap to the face.

"Thank you," he said weakly, sinking lower into his seat. Something heavy and floppy landed on his lap, and he looked down. It was a large canvas sack, with an unfamiliar logo on it and the words CANADA POST.

"Now is not the time to be answering your copious amounts of fan mail," America said dryly.

"The bag's empty," Canada replied tersely. "That's the idea. For today, _you're_ my fanmail."

America looked to his younger brother and to the bag, and then back and forth a few times until his neck started to burn. "You've got to be kidding me," he said finally.

Canada rolled his eyes, and picked up the bag, loosening the string. "You're getting in the bag or you're getting assaulted by half the population of Iran." He held it up threateningly and shook it. America pushed it away, trying to put claustrophobia and death by suffocation from his mind.

"_Not_ getting in the bag."

Canada sighed. "It's no choice. _Please_ get in the bag?"

Folding his arms, America countered, "Not. Getting. In. The. Bag."

"Get in the bag!" Canada snapped, hoping to take him by surprise.

"Not!"

"In!"

"No!"

"Bag!"

"NEVER!"

America leaped up onto the desk to escape the other country, who'd been chasing him relentlessly around the room. At that exact moment, the door flew open, and the two last people they'd ever expected to see came barreling into the room.

"You two scared me!" America roared, jumping nearly high enough to collide with the ceiling and coming down heavily on some documents, scattering them to the floor. "I thought you were-"

Canada blinked, holding the post bag limply in one hand. "Russia? England?"

Indeed, there they were – the larger country in a full winter coat and scarf despite being in a desert, and the smaller in his normal clothes but with a weird rag tied over his head. They whirled around in tandem and slammed the door behind them, panting and gasping in equal terror and exertion. America continued shrilly.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he spat, looking pointedly at Russia.

"Running away!" England said instantly, red-faced and supporting himself, hands on his knees. "It's a madhouse out there!"

Russia was breathing heavily, but his eyes were fixed on the Canada Post bag. "What exactly has been going on in here?"

Canada heaved an angry breath. "Well-"

"We're trying to escape," America interrupted, "but Canada is trying to kill me and stuff my body in a mailbag."

The room was caught in a moment of silent disbelief. It was Russia who broke the confused stillness first, crossing over to the desk where America stood and looking condescendingly up at him. Then moving so fast America couldn't see him strike, he pushed the country at the knees and sent him flying headfirst into Canada's open arms. Canada caught his brother expertly in the bag and tied it shut at the top.

"Allow me to help," Russia said politely, with a touch of venom.

"Good catch," England said dryly, locking the door.

"I invented basketball, you know," Canada replied proudly. Russia let out a barking laugh.

"Sure," England said sweetly, and then looked expectantly at the mailbag. "Did we leave him any air?"

Canada and Russia both looked at the bag.

"I TOLD YOU I WOULDN'T GET IN THE FUCKING BAG!" the bag roared. It squirmed like a living thing, and Russia kicked it, face deadpan. "OW! If that was Russia, I'm nuking you when I get out!"

There was a pause.

"Also I'm nuking you if it was England!"

Another pause.

"But if that was Canada I'll just invade you and take all your land."

Another sharp kick was delivered to the bag, this time from a different angle.

"Tried that one already, Alfred. Don't make me burn your house down again!" Canada hissed. He then looked meaningfully towards Russia and England.

"Erm, I hate to, uh, spring this on you…but would you two mind getting in the bags as well? I'm pretty sure they're not too happy with you being here either."

"Sure!" Russia said brightly, picking up one of the post bags and squirming into it like it was a cocoon. His head poked happily out of the top. Looking up expectantly at Canada and England, he chirped, "what do I do now?"

There was a moment of shocked, awkward silence.

"Well," England said cautiously, "I suppose Canada and I will have to carry you both out of here."

Canada looked sharply towards England. "But you can't go out there like that! They'll catch you."

England rolled his eyes. "But you can't carry all three of us. I'll carry America and you can carry Russia. I'll keep this on and no one will recognize me!"

Canada looked doubtfully at the rag on England's head. "What is that thing, anyways?"

A smug look appeared on England's face. "Kaffiyeh. From Lawrence of Arabia."

Canada stared.

England let out a strangled, angry cry. "Ugh! Go educate yourself sometime. _Kids_."

Now completely confused, Canada sighed and went over to where Russia's head was emerging from a post bag. "You'll have to get all the way in," Canada pointed out, readjusting the ties, "you're supposed to be mail."

"Oh! Da." Russia said, bending down and allowing Canada to shut the flap over his head. There was a moment of readjustment before Russia's muffled voice emerged, "I'm ready!"

England appeared to be circling the other post bag, looking at the right way to approach it without hurting himself. It had transformed into a thrashing mass of restrained American, ranting and raving at the top of his lungs.

"-violating my constitutional rights to breathe oxygen!" he was screeching, "and Russia has now legally attacked me which means he's started a war! And also this really hurts. I'm upside down, I've lost Texas and my neck is bending in uncomfortable ways and LET ME OUT OR I WILL END YOU ALL."

England circled once more and positioned himself carefully behind the bag which was now trying to hop away. He took a moment to breathe and centre himself and then launched a flying tackle at his cargo, pinning it to the ground.

"What's going on?" Russia said.

"America and England are having a talk," Canada replied patiently.

"Oh, that's good."

It took a few more seconds for England to wrestle the bag into submission, but he finally slung it over his shoulder and stood, shakily.

"Just let me out! Oh, I know! I'll wear England's stupid rag thing and I'll carry him in the bag. That would be far more heroic…"

"America," England snapped, patience finally at an end, "Shut up or I'm turning you over to the Iranians. We're going to leave now and so help me you will be quiet about it."

The bag fell silent. England nodded and walked towards the door, but was interrupted by a violent crash. He whirled around, to see Canada squashed underneath his own load, Russia's now slightly mussed head peeking out the top.

"What happened?" he asked, worried, and looked down at Canada beneath him. "Oh!"

The Canadian wormed his way out, shoved Russia's head back in the bag and slung it over his shoulder, staggering a little under the impressive weight. Shakily regaining his balance, he looked to England.

"I'm good," he said uncertainly.

"Let's get out of here before we all die of shame then, shall we?" England replied brightly, readjusting his kaffiyeh and leading the mail and mailman party out into the hall.

It was oddly quiet. Downstairs, there was a faint roar of angry students and a gentle, constant thud of their fists beating the doors in unison, but that was all. The actual hallway was completely deserted. Evidently most of the others had evacuated.

"Which way?" he asked the bag. Canada came up beside him. When there was no response, England nudged America through the fabric and asked again. Silence.

Canada cried as he was nearly slung off balance when Russia kicked out hard and knocked America swinging.

"OW!" America snapped, lunging back but failing miserably. "I thought you didn't want me to talk!"

"There's no one here," England whispered. "Just tell us left or right."

There was a moment of moping silence before a voice emerged. "Go right. Stairs'll take you to the side entrance."

England put on his game face and adjusted his complaining load. Canada mimicked him and they started off down the hallway, checking over their shoulders habitually as they went.

"By the way," America quipped, jostled uncomfortably in his sack, "don't _kick_ me!"

England yelped and twirled as the mail bag swung widely around, colliding with Canada's and sending him reeling into the wall like a billiard ball. He used the post bag to cushion himself, eliciting a squeak from Russia, who pushed off reflexively and sent Canada careening into the Englishman.

"Don't provoke me, capitalist pig!" Canada's post bag roared.

"Oh no," Canada whimpered.

"You started it, _commie!_"

"Run!" England yelped.

Canada complied and they sprinted down the hallway, their respective packages raging an ongoing blind kicking war. They would connect and send England and Canada ricocheting in different directions, yelps of protest inaudible over the angry battle cries of the two countries in their respective bags. Picking themselves up in blind panic the two postmen continued towards the end of the hall.

"The stairs!" Canada cried breathlessly, forcing through the door at the end of the hall with one shoulder. The act set him off balance, and he screeched precariously to a halt at the top stair. He let out a sigh of relief, and then drew in a sharp breath when he heard England approach from behind…and stop mere inches behind him.

But the stop set America's bag in a wild circle and swatted Canada down the stairs. England grabbed his collar to stop him and was dragged along, tumbling in a confused mussing of canvas and country until the four of them collapsed in a heap on the landing.

England swore uproariously. Sandwiched in between America and Russia, he was not exactly comfortable. Worming his way out and readjusting his head rag, he shouted, "Okay! So this is really not fucking working!"

America's head popped out of the bag. "It was Russia's fault! He kicked me!" he whimpered petulantly.

Russia followed his lead, trying to shove off the American who had landed crosswise over him. "You were being childish!"

England rolled his eyes and ignored their constant banter, feeling oddly like he was forgetting something. Then, pushing himself up off the wooden stairs he cried, "Canada! Are you alive under there?"

A tiny whimper emerged from under the sacks. America rolled obediently down the stairs while Russia somehow managed to defy physics and roll _up._ Underneath was a slightly flatter Canadian, glasses askew, moaning and whimpering in pain. The two bagged countries and the irked, rag-adorned Englishman looked down at him with horror.

"I'm okay," he squeaked.

They all breathed a sigh of relief, then glared at each other in various stages of rage.

"Look, don't fight!" Canada interrupted. "We need to stop arguing and get out of here! Get back in the bags!"

The statement was issued not a moment too soon. In the silence following Canada's order, a faint thunder of feet was heard. The four countries looked up in suspended horror, then met each other's eyes as they realized the rumbling noise was getting louder.

"Run!" England yelled, stuffing America's head bodily back in the bag and scrambling down the stairs. Canada followed with Russia slung over his shoulder. Above them, the door burst open, and a dozen students yelled excitedly and pursued them.

England didn't have time to check behind him. He merely fled down and down, three at a time, praying that Canada was following. His legs and heart burned, and his shoulders cried and protested at the weight of America. Two floors, now, he thought, sprinting across a landing and down another flight. Were the voices louder, closer? They seemed to swirl around the stairwell. But now there was only one flight, and an open door-

He ran out, feet thumping up little clouds of beige dust and eyes tearing in the sunshine. Adjusting to the glare through the window of his headgear, he dashed around the corner and pressed himself into an alcove in the building. Canada followed him, snuggling into the little back alley and breathing heavily.

"Okay," the younger country hissed, hoisting Russia up onto his shoulders. "Now what do we do?"

England peeked out from behind the alcove, scanning the courtyard. The pursuing students were just coming out from the door, and splitting up to hunt for their American quarry.

"We have to get out without them seeing us," he said like it wasn't obvious. "But they've got us pretty well surrounded. The gate's just behind them…damn it!"

Canada breathed out slowly. "Okay. Follow my lead."

"What?" England said sharply.

Without any further discourse, Canada jumped out into the sun. "Hey!" he yelled, one arm waving while the other kept a firm grip on the mail bag. "Come get me!"

Realizing that he still had the post bag with several hundred pounds of Russia in it, he hissed a hasty apology. "Sorry, Russia. I didn't mean to drag you into this."

With that, he ran in the opposite direction. England watched incredulously from the little alcove as the Canadian ran with all the strength and speed he could muster, toting Russia like he was feather-light and leading their pursuers away from the exit.

"I'll never understand you," his mail lamented angrily. Canada swallowed audibly and rounded the other corner of the building. He had a good start, but the weight was beginning to crush him and disorient him. His vision tunneled, his sweat poured, his foot caught on something –

And he hit the dusty concrete, blood instantly springing from his cheek where he collided with the earth. Clutching Russia's bag to him and loosening the ties intently, he prayed that he'd given England and his brother enough leeway to escape.

"Go!" Canada hissed into the bag, Russia's purple eyes glaring back up at him. "Get out while you can and run!"

Russia started unblinkingly. "I will not leave you on your own," he promised emotionlessly, then smiled as the revolutionaries closed in and the click of guns spiraled around their heads.

Meanwhile, England stared after the retreating backs of the same revolutionaries, still in minor disbelief. Then, utterly silently, he took the opportunity Canada had given and exited the embassy onto the deserted street, following the noise of the city until he came across and joined with a massive protest legion and lost himself in the crowd.

**~X~**

**Wow, I totally wasn't expecting to end this with a cliffhanger. THIS MEANS MORE CHAPTERS.**

**Ugh, the madness. It was not expected. I don't know where I was going with this half the time, I just enjoy torturing hetalia countries. *psychotic laughter* and I hardly ever write so...bluntly. I'm far more prosey than this, usually.  
**

**OHRIGHT Historical stuff. Soooo the evacuation of the embassy was pretty disastrous and a lot of people ended up held hostage in the American Embassy for 444 days. Canada managed to save six of them in what was eventually called the "Canadian Caper" and involved the famous postal-bag smugglin'. eheheheh. **

**Lawrence of Arabia is a REALLEH GOOD British film from 1962, and Lawrence himself was a British liason during the Arab revolt in 1916-18. In the movie he wears a really awesome head scarf...and I wish I knew what it was called, but it's 11:30 and I'm too lazy to find out. **

**Canadian James Naismith invented basketball in 1891. Then we proceeded to suck at it :D heheh...sorry Canada.  
**

**Also we burned down the white house, but you should know this already. It was a while ago (like two hundred years), and we're over it now. 3**

**Opium wars...I couldn't help myself. Totally unrelated in almost every way.  
**

**Erm...oh yeah, Russia and England are there because they both occupied Iran for a while and then left just after World War Two...Also America's reason for previously quasi-supporting the Shah was that he wanted to limit Soviet influence in the region...England still also had interest in Iran's oil...so I was looking for two more characters and they seemed appropriate.**

**I think that's about it. Anyways, love will be given freely for all that read and any that review. Au revoir!  
**


	2. Or Not

Canada was wondering exactly when he'd become such a fool. His guess was currently narrowed down to somewhere between "Wow, I get to be a nation now?" and "Get in the bag."

Well, timeline aside, he was certainly useless, stupid, foolish and naïve, as he'd managed to convince himself. .Normally he had a little more pride – quietly, of course – but when your wrists are tied and you're locked in a tiny, square office during a terrorist takeover, you can't do much outside of self-deprecation.

"This is all my fault," he moaned.

"I agree," Russia said tiredly, leaning his head against the desk.

"I don't know why I still help him, the way he acts!" Canada continued, and he would have wrung his hands if they weren't cuffed so expertly.

"I certainly don't understand it," Russia agreed, closing his eyes.

"But I can't _not_ help him" Canada contradicted, burying his head into his knees. "He's my brother."

"Cliché, but truthful," Russia mumbled.

"I'm sorry to drag you into this," the other nation burst loudly. His fellow captive hardly flinched, merely grunting a dreary acknowledgement.

"…There's a spider in your hair." Canada said.

Russia let out a little shriek and swiped at his face blindly with his bound hands, jumping nearly out of his skin. Canada's eyes widened as he dodged the flailing country.

"Hey," he said with uncontrolled wonder, "you were actually listening to me, weren't you?"

Russia was a little preoccupied, stuttering "whereisitwhereisitwhereisit?" at the top of his lungs while brushing away at the invisible, non-existent spider. Canada flicked a tendril of Russia's hair and the other country shuddered, flinched, and relaxed with a relieved sigh.

"Did you get him?"

"Yes," Canada lied, preoccupied.

"Good," Russia breathed, and he slumped back against the desk.

Silence reared its ugly head. A dry spell of wordless awkwardness stretched between them. Canada coughed in desperation. "So, uh," he grumbled quietly, "you were actually listening to what I said?"

"Of course," Russia said brightly, drawing his long legs up and resting his bound wrists on his knees. "I always pay attention when someone talks about America."

Canada felt a chill creep down his spine. He'd quite forgotten with whom he was sitting. Hoping he hadn't given Russia anything to work with, he retreated into silence again. "You know, Canada," Russia purred, "we're not terribly different."

The voice was cold like winter and grated raw on his nerves like wind. The full might of the Soviet Union quavered behind it. He felt like it was the start of a speech, crafted to be intimidating and alluring at the same time. All traces of the childish voice he usually had were gone.

"Cold winter," Russia guessed, "vast lands. Conflicting cultures. And I know you're more socialist than our brother wants to believe."

Canada swallowed.

"I have just a small question, then," Russia asked, feigning timid expression and widening his eerie eyes honestly. "Why do you stand beside your brother? Why not someone who would understand you better?"

Canada flinched away from his stare. Not that there was much else to look at – the windows were boarded up, and sunlight leaked in like heavy gold dust, leaving fractured patterns on the floor and illuminating little. The room was tiny, only just ten feet square with hardly enough space for the overturned desk they leaned against. The bare light bulb above them had shattered, and everything was either dark grey or black shadow, except for Russia's eyes, flinty and glowing. Around them were scattered papers and the broken drawers and fibers of an overturned desk. Canada inched sideways and heard a crunch of breaking glass.

"I dunno, I guess I just do," he muttered.

Russia pouted just a little. "Does he frighten you?" the voice became dangerous. "More than _I_ do?"

Despite the obvious threat, Canada had to laugh a bit. "My brother? Frighten me?" he chuckled. "He's not scary, he's just stupid. And a little bit annoying." He laughed again at the understatement.

Breaking at last from obviously practiced tactics, Russia seemed baffled. "He's violent, well armed, argumentative and arrogant. And he's your _neighbour_! He let you sacrifice yourself. How can you not be afraid of him?"

Canada actually forced himself to think about that one. "Well," he said slowly, cowering against the corner of the upended desk, "I trust him, I guess. I have to, but I do anyways. Al does the right thing," he proclaimed with growing certitude, "and he'll come and find us."

Russia seemed to think too, those purple-black eyes finally focusing on the ground in front of him. Canada sighed inwardly, feeling a little less pressured. Then with a little giggle, Russia spoke. "I'm sure you're right. He will want to return for you. The question is whether his guardian Britannia Angel will let him."

Canada looked at him quizzically, and Russia grinned.

"I'll explain," he said, "while you're helping me with these handcuffs."

XxXxX

England dropped the bag, letting out an angry huff. "Don't make me throw you in a river!" he hissed to his badly behaved mail, trying to sound threatening yet discreet. The bag twitched, trying to rearrange itself more comfortably on the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry!" the bag yelped back. "Let me out!"

The older nation looked cautiously down both sides of the street, hearing chanting and marching pass them by. The crowds moved with a single mind, and, as was usually the case with minds, it was ignoring Canada. He could see human traffic bottlenecked on either side, but not a soul crossed in front of him and the alley stayed deserted.

"Yes," England allowed. "All clear."

He pulled open the drawstring and was promptly kicked so hard in the chest he flew and landed on his backside on the concrete with a winded "oof!" A foot protruded from the bag, and like a cloth egg hatching, more limbs were produced until the entire thing burst open and America tumbled onto the street.

"What the bleeding _hell_ was that for?" England wheezed, flopping onto his back, then his side in an effort to catch his breath.

America pushed himself to sitting. "We're in a desert. _There aren't any rivers._"

England snorted. "You have again proven yourself a geographical idiot. And believe me, even if I had to walk to Venice from here I'd find some bloody stream to drown you in."

"_Can_ you even walk to Venice from here?" America replied, dusting himself off.

England hung his head in his hands. The other country picked himself up and looked around. The Canadian Embassy was silent and deserted-looking. The front gates were unlocked and ajar.

"So Canada didn't make it back with us?" he asked, suddenly serious. "And Russia?"

England shook his head grimly. "I don't know. He distracted them, and I ran."

America glared at him for a second, whipped around and started off towards the end of the street. He hadn't walked two steps when a hand shot out and caught him by the wrist. Two green eyes looked up at him, questioning.

"Where are you going all of a sudden?" he asked quietly.

"To find Canada!" America said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, tugging his hand away. He got a few more steps in, and then heard a scampering of feet. He didn't turn, assuming England was following him, and then regretted it the instant he felt something smash into his back like a battering ram. Unfortunately, England didn't have the advantage of the post bag this time, and his tackle left America staggered and England clinging to his back like a monkey.

"No, you're not, idiot!" England yelled, scrambling to keep his hold while America shrieked and tried to peel him off uselessly. He continued over the cries of protest, "Are you seriously going to go get yourself captured after Canada sacrificed himself to let you free?"

"But what if he's in _trouble?_" America said, his hands finally latching onto England's jacket and flinging him head-over heels to the concrete. Shrieking and springing up almost instantly, England dusted himself off and quipped, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Russia's with him."

Realizing the faux pas a moment too late, England clapped a hand to his mouth and cursed. America's eyes widened and his face turned grim.

"My brother," America growled, "is in prison with that psychotic redshirt_._" England bit his lip and tried to form words, but America was already moving forwards.

"I'll be back in a flash," he snapped, and whirled around, breaking into a run.

"America!"

He stopped and whirled back, seeing England clench and unclench his fists methodically, red-faced.

"Oh, bloody hell," he mumbled, "I'll go back to the Embassy with you and make sure you don't kill yourself doing it."

America sprinted back and hugged him, eliciting an uncomfortable squeak. Turning even more scarlet once America put him down, England dusted himself off, pretending to be scornful. Then he noticed the growing, wicked smile on America's face.

"What?" he snapped.

"Nothing," came the reply. "It's just that we're not going to the Embassy just yet."

"But you said-" England protested helplessly.

"We'll go after I make a side-stop." America cut in. "I feel the need for some _accessories._"

XxXxX

Meanwhile, an exhausted and imprisoned Canada was laughing hysterically on the floor next to a mildly bemused Russia. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he fought through a web of snickers, snorts and giggles.

"I did not think you would find it so funny," Russia said, starting to sound just a little scared.

Canada's laughter subsided, and he explained a little sheepishly. "It's just that this is so perfect," he hiccupped, "because it's so obvious that I never thought of it! Ahhhhahahah! And it explains so much of my life, too. Teehee. And now I have something to blackmail England with! God, no wonder they ignored me, they were too worried about each other!"

He stopped. The grin froze, and fell like a stone into a sorrowful grimace.

"You still feel left out?" Russia suggested understandingly.

Canada nodded and sighed, returning to sit and resting his chin on his knees. "I guess. Maybe…they won't come back to help me."

"Well, look on the bright side," Russia said, setting into a factual yet optimistic expression, like a qualified counselor. "If they don't come for you, we could always break out together. And then you could become one with me!" he concluded brightly.

Canada's expression neutralized and he produced a single, deadpan "No."

Russia pouted.

At that exact moment, the door burst free of its hinges and faceplanted on the carpet. Outdoor light blinded them for a moment, so they could hardly discern the faces of the twelve figures that charged in and surrounded them. Guns clicked across the impromptu semi-circle, and a thirteenth person emerged from the glare. When Canada's eyes readjusted, he could make out a sharp, predatory nose and flinty black eyes, surrounded by well-coiffed ebony hair.

"Iran?" Canada asked waveringly, and was rewarded with a viperlike strike to the face that shot him into the wall of the tiny office. He collided heavily, and cried out in surprise at the pain.

"That was uncalled for," Russia snapped coldly. Six warning clicks punctured the room and Canada looked up to see the long barrels surrounding Russia, who looked both angry and amused.

"Don't hurt him!" Canada whimpered. Iran bore down on him, white teeth flashing.

"Such generosity to your enemies," he said gutturally, "I did not expect that from you, America."

Russia hung his head, and Canada scrambled to explain. "I'm not America!" he yelped. "I'm his brother, he just looks a lot like me!"

Iran looked unimpressed. "You can't fool me with that old trick," he spat, pulling his own gun out of its holster and aiming it pointedly between his eyebrows. "No way Canada would manage to abduct and subdue Russia the way you did."

"He didn't abduct me," Russia pointed out pleasantly. "I went of my own free will."

Iran grunted. "I don't trust you, you're Russian. And you, America, I don't trust you either."

Canada mused on this a little – wasn't America supposed to have fairly good relations with Iran? Something had obviously changed. The vicious Persian warrior who threatened him was nothing like the liberal, lazy Iran that he had heard about. Had his revolution done this? He looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Prove it, then."

Canada snapped out of his thoughts and looked away. "What?" he mumbled, trying to say it respectfully.

"Prove you me that you're Canada."

Russia piped up again, looking pointedly at his fellow prisoner. "I can testify on his behalf, if you wish," he volunteered with a slightly disturbing smile.

_Of all the people to have on my side,_ Canada thought, equally awed and unnerved.

"Quiet," Iran snapped. "I don't need my contribution from you. I deal with you next."

Russia gently pushed away one of the more insistent gun muzzles with his bound hands. "Oh, take your time," he said icily.

XxXxX

I don't know what I was thinking when you said accessories, but this is certainly _not_ what I had in mind. "

America ignored him, admiring his handiwork. In front of him, a squat black helicopter was parked like a patient, snub-nosed bug, more an image of blundering air jaunts than high-tech aeronautics. It was a Sea Stallion CH-number-something-more-to-make-it-sound-cool-than-serve-any-real-catologuing-purpose. It was, presumably, outfitted with all the latest weaponry – since that was what America had spent the past thirty minutes doing to England. He equated himself now with an illegal armaments repository: a sniper rifle slung on his back; two holsters for different pistols on each leg; ammunition rolled across so many belts he felt like a mummy. That wasn't including all of the hidden-trigger throwing-knives and gas canisters grenades. If he moved too sharply, he'd probably stab, stun and explode himself all in one go.

"Are you sure this isn't overkill?" he grumbled, walking robotically towards the chopper to avoid detonation.

"Maybe," America said brightly, carrying even more weaponry with twice as much ease, "but I'd rather have too much than too little!"

"Too little?" England replied incredulously. "Exactly how many people are you planning on murdering?"

America tore his eyes off the helicopter to shoot England a disapproving look. "Nobody!" he promised. "You're only carrying tranquilizer darts anyways."

He looked down. He was wrapped in a shell of hypodermic needles. A quiet, proud smile started to blossom on his face. "You can be a good person, you know?" he said, almost to himself.

"Oh, except the sniper rifle. Also don't touch any of the grenades."

England deadpanned instantly. "It can't be a coincidence that I regret it every time I compliment you."

America ignored him, already halfway to the helicopter. England trotted along behind him as best he could, hoisting himself up into the co-pilot's seat. Smiling like a child with a new toy, America handed him a clunky-looking headset and said with overly action-hero-esque bravado, "buckle up."

Stifling a snicker, England obeyed, placing the headphones on only to have them slide snugly down around his neck. _Tsk_ing in disdain, he tried to shove them back up, but they slid down again. He settled for leaving them there, trying to convince himself that he looked cool that way. Meanwhile, America was absentmindedly playing with switches and dials, while keeping up a stream of nonsensical flight-related numbers and letters into the headphones. England stared at him disapprovingly, but it seemed to have no effect. He was jolted out of his glare when the metal beneath him started to rumble and purr, shivering all along its rivets. The blades started to whirr and beat overhead. He felt the thrum of flight start to take in the core of the metallic beast-

And then with a cough like a sick old man, the engine sputtered and died.

America seemed to pause for a second, then tried a couple of the switches. The helicopter remained completely unresponsive. England started awkwardly at the dashboard.

"What's going on?" the pilot snapped into his crackling headset. There was a small burst of static and a faint response.

_"Sir, the Sea Stallion can't maintain flight._"

"I got that much, Corporal!" America snapped, starting to fiddle almost spastically. "But what's the issue here?"

A small, mumbling conference went on in the background. England tried to glue the little headphones to his ears to better hear the conversation. He was just in time to pick up, _"We're thinking it could be too heavy. Sir."_

"But how could that happen?" an impatient America squeaked.

"_I…I think there's too many guns on the plane, sir._"

America's response was obscured by a burst of raucous, wicked laughter from the copilot's seat. The radio operator tried to remain professional as her heard a retaliatory slap, a high-pitched "Ow! You prick!" and then the tell-tale white noise of a headset being disconnected.

"_Could it be anything else_?" his superior hissed angrily.

"Well," the operator grappled, "we've been having some test-flight issues. Unresponsive steering, on occasion-"

The other headset was also abruptly cut off. The poor young operator wondered, tearfully, if he was fired.

Back in the helicopter, an American pilot was tearing away at his belt buckles and muttering under his breath, while his English copilot nursed the throbbing spot on the back of his neck.

"You didn't have to – hey! Where the bloody hell are you off to?"

The pilot had flung the door open and jumped, landing on the tarmac. Stalking angrily away from the helicopter, he shed flight gear as he went. England fumbled with his own seatbelt and climbed out backwards before sprinting to catch up.

"What's this-"

"We're walkin'!" America snapped petulantly.

Then, as an afterthought, he snatched England by the wrist to drag him along. The other country felt his heart lurch and his breathing freeze, but he somehow managed to stutter through his (angry, he told himself) blush, "Why? Can't we just take some of your guns out?"

The bigger country broke suddenly into a sprint, bursting across the airfield and back onto the street. "There's no point. And anyways, it's having…unresponsive steering issues!"

They careened around a corner, England nearly plowing headfirst into a building as he went.

"One might say the same of you!" he retorted loudly, as the two weighed-down soldiers took off to the American Embassy.

XxXxX

Canada was at his wit's end. After recounting about a third of his history, naming all of the Prime Ministers, Governor-Generals, and hockey players on the 1972 Summit Series team, saying the alphabet, counting to eighty-four in French and telling Iran his favorite beavertail recipe, he was exhausted, embarrassed and almost out of Canadiana. He'd even gone so far as to throw a in couple of "ehs?" and apologize for speaking too much. But Iran still seemed undecided.

"Aren't you convinced yet?" Canada pleaded.

Russia had been following him the whole time, with notable glares when Henderson was mentioned and surprise when he found out beavertails were made out of dough and not beaver. Now, however, he just looked bored.

"You must be," Russia whined. "We now know more about Canada than anybody ever wanted to."

The gunmen had all relaxed, somewhat. They nodded in desperate agreement with Russia, some of them leaning on rifles for support. Russia was splayed over the office carnage, staring at the ceiling and whistling some little folk song.

"Shut up!" Iran said. He sat on the overturned chair, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. Heat was filling the room like some thick, choking liquid. Everyone was tired but the other country wouldn't give in. "I can't just let myself be convinced. You're…you're my enemy."

"It's a pleasure," Russia mumbled under his breath.

"No!" Canada snapped at both of them. "I'm not your enemy just because my brother is! Seriously, I am my own nation, you know! I've got a flag, a military, and you damn well know _now_ that I have my own boss! So stop putting me in the same category as him!"

The last word came out as a vindictive shriek that seemed to startle everyone back into alertness. The retinue held their guns up instantly, but Iran held up a pensive hand.

"Alright," he said calmly. "I understand."

Canada breathed a huge sigh of relief-

And with that, the door burst open and a canister of gas tumbled in, spewing smoke and inciting instant chaos. Cries in multiple languages suddenly burst from all directions as the crowded room was blinded and reduced to coughing fits of rage. Canada's voice was especially shrill, and in a cry transcending the thumping, cracking furniture he yelled, "DAMN IT, ALFRED!"

The sound of gunfire split the room, and something heavy was thrust into his hands, tangling in the binding. The smoke was thinning just a bit, and Canada could make out figures darting around and bullets streaming through the smog. One of them emerged, and Canada caught a glimpse of glittering black eyes before the man slumped forwards into him, knocking him to the ground. It was Iran, with a needle-dart between his shoulder blades. Canada tried to shove him off, but couldn't manage it and just shut his eyes, clutching the gun he'd been given to his chest. It was over in minutes, and the room fell silent except for two heavy, panting breathing patterns.

"Gas?" someone said. "Honestly?"

Another voice resounded, louder and more exuberant. "Yeah! Wasn't that amazing?"

"Or totally unnecessary!"

So he was right. America and England were back. He didn't know whether to be overjoyed or horrified.

"Where's Russia?"  
Canada settled for seething and spiteful. He tried to think of something clever to say, but his mind was sluggish and it was hard to get air crushed underneath another country. Russia responded instead, chirping "I'm here!" Canada could see through the smoke that he hadn't moved since the fight had started.

"Wait!" America argued. "What about my little brother?"

"Well, he must be…around." England said vaguely, focusing his attention on undoing Russia's hands. The captured nation giggled, but said nothing.

"They probably left with him already!" America despaired. "Maybe they're torturing him." He rounded on England. "This is all your fault!"

"Me?" England asked, aghast. "If you hadn't overloaded your stupid helicopter with all those _unnecessary_ weapons we'd have been here on time!"

They stood nose to nose, colour rapidly rising in their cheeks. This was going to dissolve into a screaming match. Angrily, Canada fumbled with his dart gun.

"It wasn't _unnecessary!_ It was awesome! And besides, I told you – _steering issues!_"

Over the bickering they neglected to hear the quiet ping of two darts, and failed to notice them altogether until they punctured their respective necks. America's eyes crossed lazily, while England's rolled spectacularly back in his head. They stumbled and fell against each other drowsily, trying to decide, in light of this odd new situation, what would be the most comfortable way to hit the floor. In the end, weight won, and England crumpled backwards with a muggy "Bugger it," America falling squarely on top of him and snoring gently.

Finally managing to extricate himself from under Iran, Canada rolled his eyes and dusted himself off. He walked over to their prone bodies and looked around at the thirteen fallen Iranians around him. It looked like everyone had just been knocked out. Not a single casualty. He briefly acknowledged that America had made one good decision in using the darts before kicking his brother angrily in the shoulder and snapping, "serves you right, jackass."

Russia watched him from his perch on the desk, wide-eyed and impressed. A carnivorous smile started to appear on his face, and he rose with a practiced combination of grace and intimidation. He turned sharply to Canada in a way that made the long coat flick, and chuckled his approval.

"Well done, Canada," he said, stepping forwards. Still jumpy from the fight, Canada backed away towards the wall. Russia closed in on him with that same slightly insane smile.

"Erm…Th-thank you?" Canada managed awkwardly.

"I am impressed," Russia said, putting a hand to his mouth thoughtfully. Then, completely without warning, he shot forwards and pinned Canada to the wall. "I didn't know you were so, ah…independent…"

His great, staring eyes were so close, too close-

"Perhaps, to distinguish yourself from your brother," he purred, "you will become one with Russia?"

There was a small click of a dart gun.

"Hell no," Canada said dryly.

The other country's eyebrows jumped slightly and his face grew shocked, but only for a brief moment. Nearly immediately the eerie, staring eyes grew foggy and pleasantly dim, before Russia fell soundly asleep standing up, his forehead pressed against the wall next to Canada's ear. Shoving him mercilessly off, Canada sighed and tossed the gun away. He looked first at the happily dreaming Russian, and then at the England-America dogpile he'd managed to create in the middle of the room.

"Now that," he muttered, "is more like it."

Producing three slightly rumpled Canada Post bags from nowhere, Canada set to work.

**XxXxX**

**OH GOD SO MUCH WORK. I told myself I would finish this AND I DID. YAY! It's crazy longer than the other chapter, too.**

**The ending seemed a little hasty to me but that's just because I wanted to get this thing bloody well done already. Honestly I just had inspiration for Chapter One. I made this one up as I went.**

**Yeah also I'm sorry for the psychotic redshirt thing. I love Russia, I really do. Favourite of favourites, up there with England.**

**HISTORICAL AND CULTURAL STUFF!**

**So when America attempted to rescue their hostages with Operation Eagle Claw, everything went a little haywire because three of their helicopters broke down. The thing about the gun weight is completely made up, of course. (I love American operation names. They're always so epic. EAGLE CLAWWWWR)**

**1972 Summit Series was an equally epic Canadian-USSR hockey series. We won in game eight. My country easily considers this victory its greatest achievement. Ever. The man who scored the winning goal is named Henderson. The USSR said we cheated, called a re-match two years later, and absolutely wiped the floor with us. Canadians pretend this 1974 series didn't actually happen.**

**Beavertails are…hm. The only way I can describe them is like a cross between a square pancake and a doughnut. They're fantastic, but the name unsettles people :P**

**So yeah, that's one fic down! Thank you all for reading :)**


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